Broadrick gave me directions to the on-island post office, and I took a winding path through what locals considered the downtown area to get there, leaving NB with him. The small government building fit no more than three people and one worker. I shoved myself past the glass door and found a snug place in the corner. Two older men clustered themselves around the white laminate counter in front of the worker. Their conversation stopped as I entered.

"Hey," I said with half a wave.

Two sets of furrowed eyebrows narrowed in at me.

Okay, then. Apparently, they were a hostile bunch. I held up the slip of paper from Broadrick. "I have a package?"

The worker behind the counter smiled and held her hand out for the paper. She had her brown hair tied back with a banana clip and seemed excited about the distraction from whatever I walked in on.

"It's all bullshit. How does a healthy forty-year-old woman trip, fall, and die in a closet?" the shorter of the two men asked the other.

His friend shook his head, drawing his attention away from me. "Obviously, they aren't telling us everything. Haven't you ever watched one of those true crime documentaries? The kids are all into them now."

I leaned forward, even though I'd heard everything perfectly fine.

"Accidents happen, Harold." The taller of the two laid his hands on the counter, pushing over a stack of stamp booklets.

My nose crinkled at the overuse of the word accidents. Why in the world did everyone believe Melissa's death was an accident? Were rich people just super gullible, or did they put something in the water on the island? Maybe it was too much sun.

I slid in a little closer as the postal worker gave me a quick wave with my package slip and ducked into the back room. The conversation didn't stop when she left.

No one died from just falling over. At least not without a lot more blood loss than we saw in that closet. Why wasn't anyone questioning the police? Where was the coroner's report?

A horrible thought hit me, and I sucked in a breath. What if they didn't do an autopsy?

"Don't start with that shit again, Ramone," Harold said.

I liked his skepticism. We had to ask the hard questions.

Wait. No. There was no "we" in this situation. I wasn't a PI anymore. This wasn't my fight.

It wasn't all my fault. It seemed like no matter where I went on the island, I couldn't escape hearing about the accident-murder. Why didn't anyone give up information this easily in Pelican Bay?

"If you ask me," Harold continued, "there's only one person on this island who'd kill Melissa."

"Larken Lane," Ramone spat out, running a hand through his graying hair.

I jerked at his quick answer.

Harold nodded. "Exactly."

His quick agreement that my realtor was also a murderer had me pursing my lips before speaking. "Why Larken?"

Both men turned their heads back to me as if they'd forgotten I'd been standing here the entire time.

"You're the new girl. Aren't you?" Ramone asked.

I nodded. "Yes, just moved into the resort this week. It's a wonderful place. But why Larken?"

Ramone shook his head. "Those two women have been feuding for years. Larken showed up on the island three years ago and gave Melissa a run for her money in real estate. They fought over clients nonstop."

"Really?" Larken said nothing negative to us about Melissa. She'd been nothing but bubbly. Of course, I'd let Broadrick run the background check on her. What if Broadrick missed something important? Like a ten-year manslaughter murder charge.

No. She wasn't old enough to have spent ten years in prison. Plus, she was much too happy for a recently released convict.

I shook my head. Not a PI.

There had to be a different career out there for me, and I needed to find it quickly. Something more fun than solving murders. But what in the hell was more fun than murder solving?

If Larken was the only suspect, it's possible Melissa's death was an accident because I just didn't see Larken as the murderous type. She'd been too upset at finding Melissa's body to have been the one to kill her.

"Those women were ruthless to one another. Every time one of them closed a big deal, they'd find some way to rub it in the other's face." Ramone tapped his fingers on the counter like he was deep in thought. I crossed my finger that he was reevaluating the accident theory, but not pinning the murder on my realtor. "No, I still say it was an accident."

I groaned at the same time as Harold.

"You're a lost cause," Harold muttered.

I agreed but kept my mouth shut. Why would a realtor be knitting in a vacant home's walk-in closet? And if she was, where is the other needle?

Wait.

That's a good question.

Where was the other needle?

The questions struck me hard. There had to be two. Right? I didn't believe for a second that Melissa was in that closet knitting, but if she was, where was the second needle? There had to be one. So where was it? Why didn't we see it when we found Melissa?

I scanned my memories and came back empty for anything needle-like in the closet. The body, the dirty smudge on the carpet, the scarf in her hand, and a stack of sweaters on the floor beside her, but definitely no needle. Unless it rolled under the sweaters, but that seemed unlikely too. How much did knitting needles roll?

The postal worker returned from the back room carrying a large bright pink box in her hands. I smiled. The paper hadn't said who my package was from, but only one person mailed things in such distinctive packaging.

"Thanks," I said, taking the box from her and setting it on the counter. "Do I have to sign for it or anything?"

"Nope, she's all yours."

I slid my finger under the sticker, keeping everything intact, and opened the top of the box. An assortment of Anessa's delicious homemade cookies met my gaze. My stomach rumbled at the sight and then a second time when the smell hit me.

My fingers found a big round chocolate chip cookie from the edge and I bit off half of it while reading the note Anessa tucked into the back edge.

Good luck on the island. We miss you already!

Underneath the handwritten message, everyone from the bakery had signed their names in big, bold pink letters.

"Are those cookies?" Harold asked as he leaned over the box, staring at my goods.

I instinctively drew the box closer with my arm but then released my hold. "Yeah, they're from my friend back home."

The word "home" stuck in my throat. I guess Pelican Bay wasn't really my home anymore.

Harold moved closer. "Can I have a taste?" He'd already stuck his hand in the box and taken a raspberry-filled sugar cookie shaped like a flip-flop before I nodded.

"That's rude, Harold," Ramone said, but he, too, reached in and grabbed a cookie. He selected a simple cloud shaped sugar cookie with royal icing.

"Would you like one?" I asked the woman behind the counter. It wouldn't hurt my chances on the island to make friends.